


Push and Pull

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 20:08:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4032943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt on tumblr: Kiyoshi is Hanamiya's therapist, and Hanamiya must think of increasingly clever ways to fool him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Push and Pull

**Author's Note:**

> to tumblr user remindmeofthe: hope you enjoy! 
> 
> (prompt found at: http://awful-aus.tumblr.com/post/118941023543/awful-aus-261-262)

These forms are endless. If his mother wanted him to do more work, she could have said so and been done with it instead of sending him across town to the overpriced shrink who treats her friend with OCD. Makoto is quite sure that he is not afflicted with anything (other than an overly worried mother), thank you very much, and he would certainly prefer not to give access to his innermost thoughts to some stranger. But he’d promised his mother he’d go to a session, just to get her off his back—but honestly, if she doesn’t think he’s social or well-adjusted enough, who does she have to blame? If she thinks he has all these bottled-up problems, what does she think caused it?

Well, imaginary issues with his family would be a lovely place to start at any rate, if he ever gets through all these fucking forms (the least they could have done was send them by e-mail or even fax so he could fill them out beforehand and turn them in, although it probably violates half a billion confidentiality rules and regulations).

Makoto signs the last one with a flourish and places it gently on the desk, smiling at the receptionist kindly. If there’s one thing he’s here for, it’s for keeping up his nice façade. The receptionist smiles back.

“Sensei will see you in a few minutes.”

“Wonderful,” says Makoto.

Kiyoshi Teppei is a tall, bulky man with the largest hands Makoto’s ever seen and an even larger smile. He seems like a bit of an idiot, and Makoto allows himself to entertain the possibility that this will be quick, painless, and easy. But he won’t lower his guard only because of appearances; this may be the point of that kind of demeanor, and Makoto will not fall for such an easy trap.

They make small talk and Kiyoshi asks some standard questions about his life and medical history, most of which Makoto’s already written the answer to multiple times today. After about fifteen minutes of this, Kiyoshi asks him to talk about why he’s here.

“My mother recommended you,” Makoto begins. “And I’m glad she is, Sensei. I’ve been longing to tell all my problems to somebody, but I don’t know who to trust. When you’re the only child of a single parent, there’s so much pressure. I never knew my father, you know, and…”

He trails off, staring at the hideous painting of what may or may not be a walrus in the corner of the office.

“Please, go on,” says Kiyoshi.

So Makoto does, weaving his tale like Athena at the loom, never hitting a snag of contradiction and allowing the appropriate tremors in his voice. He feels the clock ticking down, the time of their session ending. When they have just under two minutes left, Makoto lowers his eyes demurely.

And then he lifts his face, allowing the sweet smile of victory to emerge. “Kidding, dumbass. You really think I’m some kind of fragile emo flower?”

The range of emotions on Kiyoshi’s face are interesting—he doesn’t throw Makoto out right then and there, but it’s only a matter of time before he will.

* * *

At the second session, Kiyoshi doesn’t mention anything about last week or the story or his emotions. He probes Makoto again about what he’d like to talk about, and again Makoto dives in. This time he talks about basketball, the so-called Generation of Miracles—there’s a little bit of genuine dislike mixed in with the feigned envy and bitterness about how unfair it was and how good he’d been at basketball. But this time, Makoto’s final disclaimer is not met with nearly half as much surprise. He leaves swearing under his breath, hoping Kiyoshi will tire of him soon.

But he doesn’t, and soon it’s only a matter of time before these episodic fake outs have to give way to something else; there’s only so long Makoto can hold off Kiyoshi (and each time Kiyoshi fails to mention the previous week’s story at all, and he’s long since stopped showing surprise at Makoto’s reveal). He’s proving a formidable opponent, quite sly behind the genial disposition, and Makoto’s initial skepticism about how he actually got through school has dissipated. Makoto almost wishes his mother had chosen someone else, but Kiyoshi is at least entertaining, a break from the boring corporate world and the get-togethers with friends that don’t happen often enough because they’re all busy. Still, Makoto’s planning on milking this for all it’s worth—but then it turns out it’s not worth very much at all. Kiyoshi’s onto him sooner than he should be, eyes steely behind that warm expression and pen writing very crisp strokes in that notebook of his.

The first time Makoto doesn’t end his story with a denial, he sets it up the same way. He sees Kiyoshi shift slightly forward in his seat and fights a smile, curling his fingers in his pocket. And just as it winds down, he grins and checks his wristwatch.

“I’ll see you next week.”

Makoto savors every bit of confusion on Kiyoshi Teppei’s face like a child savoring every bite of a very special dessert.

* * *

Unfortunately, Makoto can only sustain each of these small webs of lies for a certain amount of time. They aren’t permanent; Kiyoshi’s too meticulous a cleaner to get caught in them and clears them away before they get large enough. Of course, Makoto wouldn’t be a genius if he didn’t plant some seeds early on that he might perhaps need to bear fruit someday. The list of questions Kiyoshi had given him at the beginning, the forms the receptionist had made him fill out—those may seem like routines to the average patient, but nothing is unimportant in this kind of therapy for this kind of therapist (and this, Makoto supposes, is what he’s paying for, not that money is much of an object).

There is alcohol; there is always alcohol—Makoto will concede that it’s an occasional vice, but his annoyingly low tolerance for both the substance and the loss of complete control it brings lead him to avoid it in more than small amounts. Nevertheless, he’d reported drinking more than he actually does—not strictly speaking, because the definitions of what a “drink” actually is were never specified, although Makoto knows them very well. But he hints around it, too; he adds in references to craft beers he’s never tried and fine wines that are too good to ever be in the same room as Kiyoshi (let alone a conversation) and liquors that rarely leave the shelf in the pantry. He lets Kiyoshi hint about it right back, a careful ballroom dance with eyes locked.

“Are you implying I have a drinking problem?” Makoto snaps.

Kiyoshi blinks. Makoto barely stops himself from grinning—Kiyoshi is unaware that he has not, in fact, hit any nerve at all.

But this, too, passes; it’s entirely Makoto’s fault. He gets too complacent toying with Kiyoshi, leaves the barest crack open and Kiyoshi sees the light through it like a hidden blazing star and cannot help but betray himself.

“Why don’t we stop playing this little game, hmm, Hanamiya-kun?” he says in that thickly patronizing, “I’ve just found out something very interesting about you” tone of his.

Makoto storms out early that day; he figures he’s fucking earned it.

* * *

The next time he comes in, he’s all business, second-best cufflinks on his shirt and tempered sneer on his face. He sits into the chair, giving off a false (but not quite false at all) confidence, and begins to talk about work. This time he has to be more subtle; this time he’ll lure Kiyoshi Teppei down a false path away from the real barriers; this time he will make sure Kiyoshi Teppei thinks he can win, that when everything settles he has won. This time, Makoto will have his victory, even if he can’t gloat about it over the remains of his opponent (but every victory comes with a price, after all).

He walks out with a smile, hands stuffed into his pockets. This will be a very enjoyable battle indeed.


End file.
